Plan A
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Mark finally gets around to unpacking.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks, Owl and Cheri, for taking time out in a busy week to do beta duties.

**Author's Note:** I was rereading Owl's recent tale, 'Happy New Year", when I was suddenly struck by a notion. She had kindly permitted me to reference her story for mine.

**Plan A**

by L.M. Lewis

Unlike the cozy soiree of two weeks earlier, Hardcastle's New Year's Eve party was a bash, attended in a large part by servants of the public weal: clerks, bailiffs, and cops. A good many of the latter owed at least part of the night to their duties, and folks were still arriving at a time when most parties would be entering the anticlimactic stage.

Mark moved among the guests, making sure, as any good host would, that no one's glass went unfilled. That might have been what accounted for his general popularity. He'd attended a cop party earlier that month with a similar but not identical constituency and a couple of those guys hadn't been so friendly.

Somehow it didn't surprise him that none of those folks were here. Either the invitation hadn't been a general one, or their enmity extended all the way to Hardcastle himself. Either way, Mark was quietly pleased. He didn't even mind that he wasn't much more than an acquaintance to most of these people, if that.

And as Hardcastle had predicted, despite the usual dissipations of seeing the old year out, a few mostly younger guys were in the mood for a little street-ball out on the Gull's Way court. Rules were amended—where they weren't dispensed with entirely—on account of the single basket, and teams were chosen up quickly.

The judge's side might have looked like the underdogs, with him, his old bailiff, Sid, and a couple of the more superannuated cops. Of course Hardcastle had drafted Mark and Lieutenant Carlton, and there was something to be said for general craftiness and an element of turpitude. Youth yielded to experience. and by the time the sun was nearly up, the home team had carried the day.

A few sporting bets changed hands among the observers. One of the young guys suggested a rematch, but their elders wisely decided to rest on their laurels and quit while they were ahead. With that—and the sunrise—the party finally broke up.

Mark wandered back to the house. He listened to the boisterous farewells as he surveyed the damage in the den. Things looked pretty squalid, mostly on account of a couple of impromptu party games that had involved feats of coordination not compatible with champagne.

Mark sighed, though he didn't regret any of it. He began gathering up the empty glasses and located an abandoned tray to pile them on.

He hadn't gotten all that far before he heard the front door—Hardcastle, no doubt. He glanced out the front window to see the last of the cars pulling away.

"You figuring on cleaning it all up _now_?"

Mark wheeled and saw the man standing in the doorway to the hall.

"Nah," he answered. "Just getting a start on it. I'm bushed. Unless you wanna go for twenty." He put down the tray and felt for his pulse.

The judge shook his head as he stepped into the room. He scraped some empty peanut shells off the seat of his favorite chair and dumped them into the waste basket, then ensconced himself and reached for the remote. The screen came to life on a newscast.

"It's Sunday," Mark pointed out. "No Rose Bowl. No _parade_, even."

Hardcastle grimaced. "Forgot," he sighed. Then he frowned at the muted image with the subtitle: 'Massachusetts Man Makes Unauthorized Flight'. He was punching up the volume when Mark joined him.

It was probably a second-string newscaster, stuck working on a holiday. He was giving the details breathlessly, "_—used more than fifty weather balloons, filled with helium, to loft himself over a mile into the sky over Eastern Massachusetts where air traffic controllers spotted him on radar and local authorities pondered what to do. The intrepid aerialist parachuted safely into the Hudson River after a—"_

Hardcastle hit the off button and shook his head. "Like that guy a couple years ago—"

"What guy?"

"The one with the balloons and the lawn chair. Got stuck in some power lines."

"I didn't—oh," Mark paused in sudden realization and said, "a couple years ago."

It never ceased to take him by surprise, the multitude of things—ordinary and otherwise—that had passed him by while he'd been in prison. Even so, he supposed he couldn't get all that bent out of shape because he'd missed out on a stunt involving a lawn chair and balloons.

He managed a grin and a self-deprecating, "Never heard about that one. The San Quentin roving reporter must've been elsewhere."

Hardcastle could still be taken by surprise, too, it appeared. He looked as if he were still waiting for a punch line with a little more jab. When it didn't arrive he raised one eyebrow.

Mark didn't oblige. Maybe it was some sort of New Year's resolution. If it was, he figured it wouldn't last. Still, even a moment of benevolence should get some credit. And the puzzled look on Hardcastle's face was priceless.

The man finally gave up waiting and said, "Get some sleep. You've got all afternoon to get at this." He clambered up out of his chair as if he intended to take his own advice.

Mark watched him trudge off and heard him ascending the stairs. He didn't pick up the half-loaded tray. As surprising as the judge's instructions had been, the man was right. Sarah wasn't here to insist that things be set back in proper order before anyone put their feet up. There wasn't even a Rose Bowl to look forward to until tomorrow.

He sighed; there was a tiny bit of residual guilt, but he hoped not enough to get between him and a nap. He headed for the front door, stepping back out into the brisk air. He glanced up—no unauthorized balloonists, only a preternaturally blue sky. He strolled along the edge of the drive and ducked into the gatehouse through the patio door.

It was, just this once, slightly less untidy than the main house. He'd cleaned it up in honor of Sarah's last inspection two weeks ago. Things had slid since then and now a combination of the New Year's morning desire for a clean slate, and some residual nervous energy, made him turn his attention toward straightening up his own place a little.

He heaped the clothes that were scattered on the floor of the loft—two piles even, whites and colors. He was scrabbling under the edge of the bed for that one last sock when he encountered it.

He knew immediately what it was, of course—a satchel, brown and battered with the zipper starting to pull loose on one side. It was going on twenty-two years old and had only survived this long by virtue of having been demoted, many years back, to something other than his regular luggage.

It was there because he'd put it there, four months ago, now. He knew what was in it, having been very particular when he packed it: the bare necessities, including the few things of sentimental value that he wouldn't have been able to walk away from.

He'd learned that long ago; you have to be ready and you don't always see it coming. Whether it was with a bang or a whimper—or the knock on the door in the middle of the night demanding that you open up—things always ended.

He gave it a tug, pulling it out from where he'd stowed it and knocking some of the dust off of it with the sock in his other hand. He shook his head and smiled wryly. In one place long enough to get dusty—that was unusual. He hadn't even thought about it in the last month or so.

He unzipped the bag and poked around inside: toiletries, a change of clothes, some photographs, nothing of great worth. Even the bankroll was very modest, though he'd added to it steadily over the first couple of weeks—every bet he won against Hardcase, and he'd done much better than break even. He'd wondered, every time, if the judge had realized he was contributing to the emergency fund.

There'd been a couple of times, early on, usually at the end of a long day when they _weren't_ chasing bad guys, that squabbles had turned to fights with Hardcastle finally imposing some unjust fiat. On one of those occasions Mark had come stomping up here, fully intending to put Plan B into effect. Except there never really had been a Plan B—just a satchel under the bed—and by the time he'd gotten to the top of the stairs, he'd also come to his senses. That time it had been mostly a matter of remaining because there was no practical alternative. Increasingly, though, he felt as if he were staying because he belonged here.

He pulled the photos out of the bottom of the bag and thumbed through them. The one of him after that last big win in '80—it would look nice in a frame, maybe over by the door. The rest of the stuff—clothes and all that—he thought it might be a good idea to keep handy. You never knew when Hardcastle might get a sudden urge to pursue yet another miscreant to an extradition-proof vacation paradise. It was good to be prepared.

He dug inside again, burrowing around until he found it—his limited cash resources. He shook his head as he fanned the small stack of bills and counted them. Not much to show for nine months.

But then he smiled.

Hardcastle favored the Illini. Who wouldn't when they were 10-1 heading into the post-season? Besides, he favored _any _team against his old and hated rival, UCLA. Tomorrow's game might be just the right opportunity to increase his net worth.

Mark's smile blossomed into a grin. It was the eternal optimism of a guy who thought if you just had enough weather balloons . . .

**00000**

**Author's Postscript: **And the final score, for Rose Bowl '84, was 45-10, UCLA.


End file.
